Delusions of Senitment
by Mononoke-hime x sukai kurora
Summary: Moriarty never came to save Sherlock from the plane. Two months after last seeing his friend, John meets Mycroft and is told a horrifying revelation as John realizes the delusions of sentiment.


_Delusions of Sentiment_

"Do you know why you are here, Dr. Watson?"

John's only response was a sigh of exasperation and anger as he glared at the elder Holmes.

"You would think that you would give a new father a common courtesy of allowing him to stay with his newborn daughter and beloved wife –"

"Oh?" Mycroft's voice held no emotion, but somehow, John thought he could see the member of the British government mocking him. His dark eyes focused on John, never wavering as the former army doctor looked away. "I am very pleased that you have patched up your relationship with Ms. Mortsan, Dr. Watson. Indeed, if I may –"

"She's Mary Watson now," John snapped, having enough of Mycroft's silent jabs and nonsense. He was beginning to see why Sherlock – Immediately his mind froze, feeling as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. He tried to swallow the heavy lump in his throat, ignoring of how his heartbeat echoed in is head. "Besides, I didn't think you cared for her." He was used to Mycroft's cold indifference to everything; even matters that involved…him, it seemed to John Watson that Mycroft Holmes' heart never had a heartbeat. The former army doctor was shocked, and later angry of how Mycroft treated Mary – not even looking at her when he spoke, looking only at John through emotionless eyes as he opened the door to their car, telling them to have a good day after... _he_ had left.

"You are right, Dr. Watson." John looked up in surprise. Mycroft was stirring a spoon in his tea, his eyes wandering over to his familiar office in London. Just as he had when he had first arrived in the capital, John had been "kidnapped" into a car after walking outside to get Mary something to eat after giving birth to their beautiful daughter. John half-smiled at the thought of the small person that meant so much to him; her dark hair that splayed over her face, her hands and tiny fingers that reached out for him, and blue eyes that John thought lovingly that looked like Mary's. He had held her once, before giving her back to her exhausted mother, and would have held his newborn daughter again if it were not for Mycroft Holmes. "I do not like your wife." A dark eyebrow was raised. "In fact, I believe you were in the same position not even three months ago."

"That –" John could barely suppress his rage at the mention of his and Mary's separation. He focused his attention on those cold eyes that never revealed anything. "That is in this past now."

"Am I correct to assume that my dear brother of mine had something to do with your drastic change in opinion?"

It was almost too easy to feel this way. But he did. John's throat wanted to make words, but couldn't. He simply stared dumbly at Mycroft, feeling a strange emotion settle inside of him as the thought of… _Sherlock._

"That is why I called you here, Dr. Watson." John immediately shook out of his previous state to stare at Mycroft, almost jumping out of his seat and would have if the elder Holmes had not held up his hand for John to stay still. "It is about my brother."

"Is he okay?" John asked. When they had last parted, Sherlock had hinted that his mission would be fatal – they had shared a joke about baby names, had seen Sherlock smile, and then…there was the goodbye. John swallowed the hard lump that had suddenly appeared again, trying his hardest to not have his hands shake.

Mycroft didn't answer him. In fact, the dark-haired man seemed almost _stalling_ , not looking at John and staring into his cup of tea. There was a pause, and then Mycroft looked up.

"Dr. Watson, my brother is dead."

"Wha –" The voice that came out was half-strangled. Somehow, John appeared to be almost detached from his body, feeling his breath easing out his lungs like it was happening far away. "You're lying. He died before, didn't he?" Anger started to encase his heart. The same anger that had erupted when John had found out that Sherlock was alive, increased as the man stood and his face became red at the sight of Mycroft Holmes. "He died, and came back. How do you expect me to believe another one of your lies?" His octave was louder than he had intended, actually reaching a shouting pitch, but John didn't care. Somehow though, he didn't care.

He didn't notice that his hands were slowly shaking.

"And you know why he lied to you, Dr. Watson." John was surprised when Mycroft directly looked at him. The former army doctor was stunned when he saw dark circles around Mycroft's eyes, and there seemed to be a slight tremor in his body as he spoke. "To protect you."

"Me?" John asked in confusion. His eyes widened, and his breath hitched. "What the bloody hell do you mean, protect me?"

Suddenly, Mycroft shook his head.

"How I envy you, Dr. Watson."

The sound of the same words echoed in John's ears and he could barely focus as he remembered another time – he had been annoyed, Sherlock as insane as usual, telling him stupid things like that.

The memory caused John's heart to clench, and his eyes widened further at the small smile on Mycroft's face. It was, it looked…like mockery.

"Sherlock never told you that he jumped three years ago to save your life, did he?" Mycroft's voice was quiet despite the mockery his current smile held. "He didn't tell you that the reason why he faked his death was because he had to save you, otherwise you would have died."

"What are you talking about?" John snapped.

"Snipers. Pointed at goldfish that my brother mine apparently had affection for," Mycroft stated simply, as if explaining a game. "Especially you, Dr. Watson." Those eyes never seemed to leave him. They seemed content to look at the stunned horror on the smaller man's face. "He faked his death so that you would not die, my dear doctor. Being intelligent, my brother mine would have found a way to save the others – but he could not risk you." There was a small pause. "Never you."

"Why didn't he tell me this?" John snapped in both revulsion and horror. _You never said anything, why? Goddamn it, Sherlock, we're –_ His thoughts stopped at the sound of Mycroft's voice, still emotionless as a grave.

"Did you I tell you of how I found him, Dr. Watson?" The older man wouldn't meet John's gaze. Something inside John screamed at him to run, run, and not look back. But he was frozen. "I do not know – no, I do not want to know how long he was held captive. In a base in Serbia, they tortured my little brother. Beat him with pipes, whipped him, deprived him of sleep…but then, you know all about torture, don't you, Dr. Watson?"

"That…" John's reply stuck in his throat. The vague horror that he once felt intensified until he could only see the same image echoing in his mind. John, pushing Sherlock onto the hard ground…on his _back_. Punching his face and nose, not noticing of how Sherlock appeared to sway and lean against the wall for a mere moment, not once seeing in his self-justified rage of how pain momentarily flashed in those eyes. "I – I didn't –"

"It is all right, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said motionlessly. "You did not kill him. But now, yes…I believe you have."

"What do you mean, I killed him?" John shouted. "I didn't make him go on that plane! I didn't make him shoot that bloody bloke Magnussen! I didn't make him do anything!"

Mycroft was silent to John's shouts. John must have imagined it, but he thought he saw the elder Holmes close his eyes, as if it hurt. There was a heavy feeling coming from him, one that John could not understand.

"Everything was about you, John." The man almost jumped at the sound of impossibly cold anger in Mycroft's voice. "Everything my brother did was about you. It was all about you, Dr. Watson."

So much like that day...the same words...that had come from the mouth of his friend before he left the wedding early. Why, John had no idea.

John stifled hysterical laughter that wanted to come out of his mouth.

"That man was one of the most selfish arseholes on the planet, Mycroft! How do you expect me to believe –" John stopped, feeling cold at the sight of Mycroft's expression.

There was anger, yes, but sadness too. John couldn't understand of what caused Mycroft to look so human.

"Did I ever tell you of how everyone in the family thought of Sherlock as the stupid one?" Mycroft didn't allow John time to reply. "I am older than my brother, and I can still remember Mummy's whispers to our father that something wasn't right with Sherlock. He was a year old, and still couldn't speak. Needlessly to say, my brother mine surprised everyone when he finally managed to speak." There was a distant look in Mycroft's eyes. "He was three years old."

"Three?" John muttered. He thought about the information Mycroft had given him. In his mind, it seemed to him that Sherlock had always been smart. Amazing. Any word that was synonymous with brilliant.

"I know," Mycroft stated. "I thought so myself at a young age. But," he said with a slight pause, "our older brother was different."

 _Brother?_ John thought incredulous. Never in his years with Sherlock did he mention a second brother. If he did, John thought that perhaps the other one had been killed by Sherlock himself, given of how he loathed Mycroft.

"Yes, my older brother by seven years. Sherrinford Holmes. He was fifteen when Sherlock was born, and was unlike the rest of us." Mycroft sighed, his hand palming his face as if in exasperation. But John, could see the faint trembling in Mycroft's limbs and decided the impossible.

Mycroft Holmes was in pain.

"Our elder brother seemed almost like a father to Sherlock, attending him as newborn and later toddler. He didn't believe that Sherlock was stupid, or that he wouldn't speak. He was…truly endeared with Sherlock."

"What was his first word?" John asked. He could easily imagine Sherlock as a small child, with his small dark curls and eyes that changed colors depending on the light.

"Shern." Mycroft kept his voice clipped. "And his second word."

"Myc."

"Your name…" John whispered.

"I was always jealous of my brother's relationship with our older brother. I…did want to connect with Sherlock, but he seemed perfectly content with our older brother who doted on him and let him get away with wishing to be a pirate."

"And then, that wish turned to anger, and soon Mummy had to stop the numerous fights we had. I always called Sherlock stupid, mocking his perceived intelligence and telling him that he would never be like me."

John knew it was better to not speak. This was the most he heard Mycroft speak. Ever. It was as if something was pulling the dark-haired man to say the words that were locked inside. And John knew to not speak, because if he did, it would mean that Mycroft would…

John was startled out of his thoughts by Mycroft pulling out a wallet. Without speaking, he showed a small picture. His heart was almost crushed as he saw who were in the small photograph that obviously…was precious to Mycroft. John could see how the edges were frayed and somewhat torn. Looking at the photo, John was stunned of how alike the oldest and youngest Holmes looked. They almost looked like twins. Sherrinford Holmes looked about eighteen in the photo, wearing a black blazer with a smile. A shock went through John, probing deeply in his heart. That…was Sherlock's smile. He had never said though, but he thought that Sherlock's smile was beautiful. It was as if the gentle lips could tell show much of his feelings. Not only did the third Holmes brother share Sherlock's smile but also his eyes and dark hair. The teen was holding Sherlock, about two or three, in the crook of his arm. John licked his lips at the sight of pure happiness in the little boy who most people considered a psychopath. _They don't know him._ John closed his eyes and breathed deeply, forcing himself to listen again to Mycroft's truth. _…And nor did I, thinking arrogantly that I knew him the best in the world._

"What happened?" John asked. Mycroft didn't have to tell him that Sherrinford Holmes was dead. If that was not true, then why would not Sherlock speak of him, and why…would the smiling child he had been would become a man who believed he was not like other people?

"Sherrinford died as an MI6 agent." _MI6?_ John thought, flabbergasted. His jaw almost dropped. His widened stared at Mycroft, who had set down his tea and staring at his hands. John still had the wallet carrying the photo in his hands. "To spare you of the disgusting sentiment, I made a mistake that day, and my older brother paid it with his life." There was a moment of breath, and John saw Mycroft swallow. "Sherlock was seven. He didn't understand, only knowing that one the people he loved most in the world was gone."

"One of the people?" John asked. His gaze sharpened at Mycroft's words. "What do you mean?"

Mycroft ignored him. "Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is chemical defect on the losing side. You have heard such expressions from my brother mine, I presume. That…is what Sherlock and I learned that day, after our brother's death. He blamed me for Sherrinford's death, and rightly so." Now Mycroft turned toward John, and the doctor found that the taller man was looking at him distantly, as if he was seeing a memory of raw grief. "That is why my brother hated government and politics, Dr. Watson. Those frivolous actions, in his mind, got his beloved brother killed."

"He's not dead," John whispered. The world seemed to sway at the thought, seeing in his damaged memories, again, as if he was experiencing nightmares again, Sherlock falling and dying, covered in blood. His memories of Sherlock suddenly crumbled, remembering only the feeling of Sherlock's surprisingly warm and smooth hand across his own. "He's not dead!"

"Do you think," Mycroft asked in an almost inaudible whisper, "that I would tell you this lie after what I have told you?"

John's mid shuttered to a stop. His mind refused to think, the memories of the dark-haired man he had come to know as his mind invading his mind. It didn't stop. His breathing quickened, and something heavy lied across his chest. _He…can't be… No, no…there's no way…that…_

"I never expected Sherlock to love again, after Redbeard and Sherrinford. Especially not in the form of you, John Watson."

"What?" John could only croak.

Mycroft's voice was cold. "You never knew, did you? That is why I envy you, John. You remained oblivious to my brother's pain for years."

"Pain?" John flinched, and almost backed away at the amount of fury that he saw in Mycroft's eyes.

"Yes, pain, Dr. Watson." His voice almost hissed. "You never knew of how my brother was in love with you." _In…love?_ John's breath hitched. Against his will, he remembered quite clearly of how he had found Sherlock in the drug den. But why was he really there? Was…it truly just for a case as Sherlock had said? The look of pain Sherlock gave him when he had said, _"Because you chose her."_ The pain…those blue eyes that seemed drowning in pain that John could never reach, and of how he had saved John from the fire, paying no attention to the fire burning around him, his own name sounding like a prayer. Everything that Sherlock did for him, every little moment that he had…echoed in John's mind. Why, he wondered now, did he look away from his best friend's face after the wedding, after seeing such a genuine look on his face?

"I see you understand now, Dr. Watson." Now he could hear the mockery in Mycroft's voice. But…it seemed that voice was far away. Remembering the one time when John had to carry Sherlock to his room after the disaster of Irene Adler, surprise echoing in his mind of how light Sherlock felt in his arms, of how his breath felt against his neck…and of how peaceful he looked as he slept. The emptiness that he had felt after Sherlock was dead, dead and never coming back, become emptier and emptier every day until he could feel nothing. It was as if two people had died the day when Sherlock jumped. _"The words that you wanted to say…but never said. Say them now."_ John couldn't. Even now, when Sherlock was alive and _breathing_ , his voice, impossibly bright and there in his mind even when asleep, John could not say the words that he had always meant to say. Wondering what Sherlock wanted to say to him late at night, on that day he had left him. Always thinking about the one man…that…meant so much to his heart.

 _Sherlock…_

"Although Sherlock had loved you for a long time, Dr. Watson, he believed himself unworthy of your love." Mycroft's gaze would not leave John's, and there was no sympathy as horror filled in John's eyes as he learned the long-buried truth. "He wanted you to be happy, John. He believed, in his own mind, that Mary would bring you happiness, and thus made it absolute certain that you would forgive her for the wounds she had brought to you both."

"I never asked for this!" John shouted. Anger rose through his veins, and he wasn't certain it was at himself for not knowing about Sherlock's feeling for him…or that in his heart, he knew, but didn't voice it? Because, in his deluded mind, that it was wrong? "I…didn't ask for him to this for me," he whispered. The tightness across his chest made it so that John could not breathe for a number of moments, feeling sick and slightly swaying as he crouched down onto the floor. "I…"

"My brother sacrificed everything for you, John Watson." _The feel of his hand, so warm and gentle it was almost like a feather-touch. A smile, barely there, but saying so much…the happiness of seeing the other smile._ "His reputation, his freedom, and life."

"A lie is always preferable to the truth…both my brother and you would attest to that, believing in your delusions of sentiment."

 _"Just stop this." Standing near a grave, never feeling so alone. Sobbing, tears flowing from his eyes. The words whispering in his mind that he could never say now._

"Why…the mission…" John rasped. "He said…he said that it would –"

"Intelligence error," Mycroft said cryptically. "As always. The mission was a failure. Every member died, Dr. Watson. Including the man who loved you."

John felt tears rise in his eyes. Vomit build in his throat, and he fought the urge to scream. _Please…_ he thought as he bit his lip hard, until it almost broke the skin. _Please…just one more miracle._

 _Don't be dead, Sherlock. Don't be dead. You_ can't _be dead._

 _Not when I realized..._

"He can't be dead…" John stated dully. "He can't…b-be…"

"But he is, John. I have...only sentiment of the brother I once had, and you…"

"I didn't realize what I had until I did," John stated in a mere whisper. "I didn't realize…" The image of Sherlock, wearing his coat or the stupid hat that he hated, smiling or making deductions, calling his name, and his own fears and suppressed emotions, echoed in the broken and grieving man's mind.

 _"I heard you."_

"Oh…" John whispered, burying his face in his hands. "I loved him."

"Yes." The rage had gone from Mycroft's voice, echoing only impossible sympathy. "You did."

"Magnussen isn't here to endanger your family, Dr. Watson. I trust you do not do anything you regret, and live for my brother."

"Live?" John wasn't certain if he wanted to laugh or sob. The sound that came from him seemed like both. "How can I live, knowing that Sherlock is dead, only this time not coming back?"

"Live for him," Mycroft repeated. John looked up and stared at the taller man. There was an emotion of heavy sadness on his face. "I know it is not easy…but you should live, as my beloved…brother of mine would have wanted you to."

A single tear drop fell. John could see through his own tears that Mycroft had cried. He could still see another tear leaking from his eye, losing the composure that he once held in high regard.

"Live for your daughter, Dr. Watson. Sherlock would not want you to follow him. Live, because if you die, you will no longer be able to have sentiment. And…we have lost, John Watson."

"We have lost...but we may still live."

* * *

This has an open-ending because I had no idea how to end it. If anyone read this...less than adequate story, please show me your thoughts.


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